


Masquerade

by RussianWitch



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Don't copy to another site, Frottage, Identity Porn, Introspection, M/M, Masks, Oral Sex, Seduction, не копировать
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:51:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Clark isn't exactly sure how Bruce Wayne of all people manages to corner him in the small sitting room, but there they are, Wayne, between him and the door smiling seductively under the leather wolf's head half mask.Clark v drunk billionaire goes about as well as you'd expect.





	Masquerade

"Well, hello there little red riding hood!" Clark hears as a big hand squeezes his ass.  
"That's a cape, Mr. Wayne," he says, hiding a shiver of delight at the drunk billionaire's audacity, "and I'm hardly little." He only realizes how wrong he was to say that when he sees interest flare in the inebriated man’s eyes.   
"I'd love to check that for myself," Wayne smiles wolfishly, the costume he's wearing doesn't help.

Clark isn't exactly sure how Bruce Wayne of all people manages to corner him in the small sitting room, but there they are Wayne between him and the door smiling seductively under the leather wolf's head half mask, his tie askew showing the hollow of his throat, his hands in soft grey leather gloves stalking Clark like he's lunch.

"You know what happened to little red riding hood, right, Superman?" Wayne whispers, pushing Clark against the wall.  
He has to ball his fist to keep from bracing against the wall and leaving finger-shaped holes.   
Wayne is too close, Clark can feel his body heat through his suit, can smell expensive cologne and cigar smoke.   
Wayne's gloved hand on his jaw is surprisingly firm, thumb digging in under Clark's chin, pushing him into turning his head so Wayne can lean in and whisper in his ear.   
"She got eaten," he rasps right in Clark's ear, as his knee pries Clark's legs open.

“Mr. Wayne, please,” Clark tries to sound in control despite Wayne’s thigh moving between his legs forcing him on tiptoes. “People will be wondering where you have disappeared to.”

“They can keep wondering,” Wayne says leaning in, heavier than Clark would expect him to be against Clark’s chest, his lips brushing the corner of Clark’s mouth. “I on the other hand—tell me, Superman, how do you get out of that suit?”

His hand hooks into the collar of Clark’s suit tugging on the material which gives, to Clark’s shock, splitting under Wayne’s fingers like wet newspaper baring Clark's chest to the billionaire's overheated gaze. Damn Kryptonian tech to hell, Clark thinks, whoever thought of fabric that responds to the wearer’s subconscious was clearly an idiot.

“Nice,” Wayne growls appreciatively, running his fingers through the hair on Clark’s chest appreciatively.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark tries again, catching the billionaire's hands before they wander somewhere Clark will not be able to deal with. The suede of the gloves is soft warm on his skin, makes him shiver as it brushes against a nipple before going up, teasing along Clark’s collar bone.

“How human are you exactly?” Wayne whispers, ignoring his trapped hands, trapping them between them to worry at Clark’s neck with his lips and teeth.

“I—mr. Wayne, please,” Clark finds himself moaning, the thigh between his legs thick as a tree trunk forcing him onto his tiptoes, off balance enough to keep shifting, keep rubbing himself against the expensive fabric. He can’t even remember why letting Wayne to this, do more is a bad idea—when the bastard pulls away.

Clark is left slumping against the wall, straining dick outlined in his half-open suit, whining for the weight of Wayne’s body against him of those gloves on his skin.

“Yes or no?” the billionaire demands, and it takes Clark several breaths to figure out what’s actually being asked.

Common sense tells him he should say ‘no’ because Superman doesn’t sleep with _anyone_ and Wayne is drunk—except how that Clark can focus, he doesn’t look it.

“Take off your mask,” Clark demands, feeling far too exposed for comfort all of a sudden with Wayne standing there looking awfully composed for someone who’s supposed to be drunk.

“Take off your suit,” Wayne demands with a vicious grin, “or leave.”

Clark is tempted to point out that he wasn’t the one to drag them into the room, but Wayne shrugs out of his suit jacket and starts on his belt drawing Clark’s attention to the bulge below it.

He’s going to regret this, Clark knows, probably have sleepless nights, but that doesn’t seem to matter, not while watching Wayne drop his trousers leaving him in his crisp white shirt, socks with suspenders, gloves and the mask hiding most of his face.

Wayne steps out of his trousers, circles the couch and sprawls on the dark leather.

“Well?” Wayne demands, throwing his head back to look at Clark.

He abuses his speed to get out of the suit, floating over the couch back to hover over the billionaire studying the surprisingly muscular body revealed by the removal of most of the suit, one leg hooked over the couch back and ruddy dick curling enticingly over the white material of Wayne’s shirt.

Clark lands between thick thighs pushing them further apart, hooking his hands over Wayne’s hip bones as he gets comfortable, shivering as he gets comfortable. He tries to push Wayne’s shirt out of the way, but Wayne’s grabs his wrists mouths twisting into a snarl. Human tight but impressively so, enough to still Clark in his tracks.

“Wha—,” Clark whispers, hesitating, unsure of his welcome.

“Leave it!” Wayne orders, pulling Clark off balance, down until he can grab him by the hair forcing his head back and sinking his teeth into Clark’s throat.

He can’t mark Clark’s skin of course, but he makes a good effort leaving Clark panting and throbbing feeling like his skin is too tight for his body.

“Now,” Wayne husks, “how about you give me a closer look at how not little you are,” he says letting him go.

For a moment Clark is stumped, not sure what’s expected of him, but Wayne arches a brow—and Clark can feel his gaze rake down his body settling on his groin.

“Get up here!” Wayne orders tapping Clark’s thigh, and Clark goes.

He floats up just enough that Wayne can pull him forward until he’s hovering right over Wayne’s chest, his balls slapping Wayne’s chin.

The sound the prone man makes can’t be a purr, but it’s damn close. He raises his head nuzzling at the base of Clark’s dick, his breath hot on Clark’s balls.

The edges of Wayne’s mask are slick-rough where they dig into Clark’s thighs as he’s pulled lower. Wayne’s mouth on his balls is soft, his tongue human hot and pleasantly damp on Clark’s balls, worrying gently at the sack and sucking them one than the other making Clark shiver and bite his lip.

Whatever he thought was about to happen, Clark hadn’t expected this, this—whatever it is Wayne intends to do...thinking, thinking is hard with Wayne working his way up Clark’s dick, scraping his teeth over sensitive skin.

The sensation makes something twist in Clark’s gut, not that Wayne could do any damage, no human could but teeth on his dick still make him squirm and whine trying to pull away, only to be pulled back, guided into Wayne’s mouth deeper and deeper until Clark is crouching over Wayne’s face, getting pushed and pulled into fucking Wayne’s mouth as he stares down at the Persian carpet visible behind the armrest to avoid looking down at far too intense blue eyes staring up at him from behind the wolf mask.

He feels—dirty, _used_ and at the same time aroused like he hasn’t been since he hit puberty and had spent months hiding in the barn loft his hand barely leaving his dick until he got himself under control again,

Wayne’s hands stroke Clark's thighs restlessly, curving over his ass to knead the cheeks as Wayne fucks his throat with Clark’s dick.

He doesn’t last long, not after Wayne’s fingers find his asshole, probing and rubbing until Clark is dizzy, teetering on the edge of release—when Wayne pushes him away panting for air looking, despite the mask, very satisfied with himself.

“Not bad,” Wayne says between gulps of air.

His lips are swollen, red and wet with saliva, his cheeks wet with it as well, Clark’s taste on his tongue and rubbed off on his skin. Clark wonders if he’s going to think back on this every time he sees a wolf now. “Now how about you putting it to good use!”

He pushes Clark away, back down his body spreading his legs wider in invitation, “and make it worth my while!”

Clark didn’t know he could still blush.

He lands on the couch, falls the last few inches making it creak ominously under their collective weight, steadying himself on thick thighs getting distracted by the muscles shifting under his hands. Wayne’s dick is ruddy sticking out between the shirt tails, Clark bends to suck at the head only to get kicked in the shoulder.

“Fuck me!” Wayne enunciates in a mocking drawl making Clark feel like he’s dense.

They don’t have lube, Clark realizes, no condoms either, nothing that could be used as a substitute—”Jacket pocket,” Wayne says with a put-upon sigh throwing an arm over his eyes like Clark is exhausting him needlessly.

His cheeks are burning, his dick painful with need, possibly, shamefully because Wayne is being such an asshole. His speed comes in handy, Clark takes malicious delight in Wayne’s startled grunt at him managing to grab the lube and get between Wayne’s legs before Wayne finishes sighing dramatically.

His hands shake as Clark fumble with the packets resisting the urge to use heat vision to slice them open. Wayne thrusting his hips up in invitation and sighing significantly as Clark concentrates on getting a condom on without tearing it doesn't help.

Wayne is loose, Clark discovers to his shameful delight sliding his fingers into the man’s body.

Perversely, he wonders if Wayne has been fucked by someone already, maybe in the limo on his way to the party, maybe in the cloakroom or this very room—except no, Clark would have smelled it.

He wishes he could have seen it, had known to look for the possibility.

There are all kinds of rumor about Wayne flying around, more about his younger years, sexual exploits and what not.

Wayne gasps, a sharp, pained sound, and Clark realizes he’s gotten distracted enough he’s leaving bruises on Wayne’s thigh, the fingers he has in the man’s body vibrating tormenting the billionaire while he thinks.

“Sorry,” he stutters, stopping his fingers.

“Oh,” Wayne pants, “you didn’t have to stop on my account,” he doesn’t quite manage a smirk, but enough of one that Clark huffs and pushes in.

“Not so little at all,” Wayne purrs with satisfaction to himself hooking his legs over Clark’s hips.

Clark can feel him tightening around him, clinging and squeezing, hot and slick and tight until nothing outside of Wayne exists.

Wayne’s shirt is turning transparent with sweat, Clark notes, dark patches forming under Wayne’s arms and around the collar. He notes the way the buttons strain as Wayne braces against him.

“Touch me,” Clark pants aching to feel Wayne’s gloves on his skin.

“No,” Wayne purs, locking his fingers behind his head.

“Touch me!” Clark repeats, his hips pistoning faster, shifting the angle of his trusts until Wayne is too busy moaning, to smirk. “Please, touch me,”

“No,” there is laughter in Wayne’s voice even as it breaks when Clark’s dick finds his prostate again.

“Fuck!” Clark buries his face in Wayne’s throat feeling like he’s about to cry with need. He keeps moving, keeps fucking Wayne hoping—to be rewarded, he realizes with humiliation, his body vibrating with the strain of it.

“Good boy,” Wayne groans, his lips and teeth on Clark’s ear, worrying at the lobe, his breath hot on the sensitive skin behind Clark’s ear.

He grabs at the arm of the couch, not sure if touching Wayne—if fucking him—is still wise. Loss of control is tantalizing, terrifyingly close and getting closer with every murmured “good boy” and “right there,” every spike in Wayne’s heartbeat and growling gasp—Clark never imagined he could feel this out of control, so _used._

Wood splinters under his fingers as Wayne comes making a mess of his shirt and Clark’s abdomen shuddering and finally, _finally_ putting his hands on Clark, the silky rough leather catching on Clark’s skin as Wayne grabs at him, gropes at his shoulders and chest, dark blue eyes widening behind the wolf mask as Clark _keeps going_ fucking him through the aftershocks and oversensitivity ignoring the way the gloved hands claw at his body and grab at his hair, because even that feels good and Clark _needs…_

Wayne’s gloved thumb traces Clark’s lips, catching on the bottom one for an instant before thrusting in the taste of leather exploding across his tongue—”Come!” Wayne orders, steel in his voice, the word practically a growl that shivers across every last one of Clark’s nerves and he’s flying, falling, the wood cracks and disintegrates under his hands as he comes, Wayne laughing under him like he’s oblivious how close he’s come to having the same happen to him.

Clark feels drugged, oxygen-deprived _weak_ as he tries not to crush Wayne. He locks his knees until breathing is no longer a chore until he can safely let go of the remains of the armrest.

“Violet is not going to be happy about the sofa,” Wayne sighs, running his hands over Clark’s oversensitive skin absentmindedly.

“I—I could…?” Clark slurs calculating how long he’d have to skip eating to save up for a couch.

“Pay for it?” Wayne laughs hard enough to kick Clark in the thigh, “a 17th-century rococo style sofa? Do you happen to have a few million lying around?” He asks between guffaws untangling himself from Clark, removing his hands much to Clark’s displeasure.

“No—but…” He could maybe figure out a payment plan or…

“Don’t give it a second thought, son,” Wayne says catching Clark’s chin in his hand, giving him one last feel of the glove against his cheek, “I’m sure I can talk her out of being too upset.”

It feels like he’s just been dismissed sitting there on the damaged couch a full condom on his dick. He wonders what the house staff will think when they find it in the wastepaper basket the next time the room gets cleaned if they will know who they are cleaning up after.

Watching Wayne barely make an effort to put himself to rights, Clark feels more alien than usual. The _used_ feeling he’d enjoyed while inside of Wayne turns sour, into something shameful and unwanted.

For once, Clark allows himself to flee; out of the window into the velvet sky up into the stratosphere counting on the cold there to help him with the blush coloring what feels like his whole body and the insidious whisper from his subconscious that wonders what Wayne would do if Clark came to visit him some night for a repeat performance.

 

**Sometime in the future**

“You can look around, but don’t touch anything!” The Bat growls glaring despite Clark’s amiable nod before disappearing from sight. Clark resists the urge to leave fingerprint smudges somewhere the Bat will notice them later, or possibly not at all, some mark of his existence in the cave.

Every doorway he passes lights up, proximity sensors guiding his way, all except one.

The dark cavern is empty at first glance, but something draws him in, a hunch, a gut feeling, Clark isn’t sure until he spots a single piece of furniture in the darkest corner.

He used to think about it, about going back and offering to pay for the damage, about Wayne. It took him a while to stop blushing every time he spotted the man’s face on the television or the cover of a tabloid.

He’d thought about the man a lot, about visiting him—in hindsight, he wonders about a hell of a lot of other things as well.

His hands still fit the whole where he crushed the wood, absurd of him to think something would have changed in the years since the encounter.

“Do you know how much biological matter you left behind?” The Bat says from right behind his back making Clark jump. He freezes in mid-air feeling like an idiot.

“You—,” he remembers the condom, the strange visual of Bruce Wayne fishing it out of the trash and taking it home with him looming before his mind’s eye, “why?”

“An alien with godlike powers making i—himself known—,” the Bat, Bruce shrugs unapologetically.

“And do you fuck everyone you do a threat assessment on?” Clark snaps, anger welling up to drown out the shock and confusion, “or was I a special case?”


End file.
